Innocence
by xXxMusicSavedMyLifeXxX
Summary: "There are those who are innocent, and those who play it," Sherlock said in flat tone, fixed on anything other than John. "Which are you?" "I pray you never find out..." Originally posted on AO3
1. Chapter 1

Steady hands cleaned the large pool of blood surrounding the rather mangled body. The owner of those hands _tske_d. _Tediou_s, he thought as he lifted himself off the floor. He wasn't expecting the woman to be a military veteran. This threw off his plan, and even got himself injured. She didn't suffer long. A quick, deep cut to the jugular and he didn't have anymore problems afterwards. When the blood could no longer be seen, he picked up the bottle of peroxide he had carried with him. He carefully spilled the liquid, outlining the stained wood. He watched as the remaining blood boiled. He poured the rest of the bottle on the floor. He clicked his tongue and turned to leave. He was careful. He wouldn't want to get caught and his fun ruined. He thoroughly cleaned his hands and face, picking up the bottle of peroxide.

He exited the house in which he'd easily broken into. He closed the door quietly. It was an interesting kill. The woman fought well. Much better than he had expected. She had possessed a lot of strength. His lips formed a smile. _But her strength was nothing compared to my mind,_ he though confidently. His confidence would eventually lead him into getting caught one day, but he would walk that bridge when he got there.

With a sigh, he brushed his dark curly hair from his face, tossing the bottle he still held into a hole that was bound to be covered. He breathed in the somewhat fresh London air. He had no money for a cab so he figured he'd walk home. He mused his hair, shoving his hands in his pocket. "Now, who's next?" he murmured to himself, inclining his head.

"...would want me as a flatmate?"

Sherlock stopped and back tracked in his mind. Someone in need of a flatmate?

"You're looking for a flatmate?" Sherlock said, turning around.

A man, goodness, much shorter than himself with white-ish color hair. He was dress on a plaid button down and a cream colored sweater paired with dark blue jeans and boots. The man was a tanned color, too dark to be from London and its gloomy weather.

"Yes, I am, actually," he said, voice gruff from what sounds like years from yelling, but it sounded natural, but forced at the same time. Military. "Do you know of anyone looking for one?"

_Interesting...Fun. _"I do, in fact. I am. " _Smile; this is your chance to reel in a new victim._

The man smile and stood, hand extended. His stance was casual but alert. A closer look and he could tell the man still wore a military haircut, though his hair was on his ears. "I suppose I'm your guy."

_He'll be cutting it soon...Old habits die hard. _He took the outstretched hand. The grip was firm, and he rather liked that. "Yes, I suppose you are." _Indeed. Fun. _"The address is 221B Baker Street. No need to knock; the door will be unlocked."

"Can I get a name?" he was asked as he dropped his hand.

He quirked an eyebrow. "Sherlock Holmes."

"John Watson."

Sherlock nodded. "One question: Iraq or Afghanistan?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock closed the door to the small safe he kept underneath his bed. He twisted the dial before standing, brushing his knees, though there was no dust or dirt on the floor. He straightened his blazer and mused his hair. He had deduced that his thick curly hair was found very attractive to both women and men when it was just a bit messy buy not to the point where it was too tangled and matted. He clicked his tongue and as he deleted things off his to-do list. His favorite knives and and poisons where locked in that safe.

He automatically knew that John wasn't stupid. He could see a threat when one was in front of him. Everything was clean if somewhat organized. As he walked out of his bedroom, he heard the heavy clicks of John's boots coming up the stairs. He met up with John in the living room, who simply stared at the test tubes and beakers scattered about.

Today, John was dressed in a burgundy buttondown with a black sweater vest and a black leather jacket. Each item had be neatly pressed. His jeans had a crease down the front. He'd gotten a haircut, as Sherlock had predicted he would. He was clean and neat. Not quite formal, but definitely sharply dressed, Sherlock allowed himself to think.

"It's a bit messy, yeah?" John more or less said than asked.

"I was experimenting earlier in the day," Sherlock said dismissively. Sherlock went to the kitchen, pulling out a can of pineapples. "I have an unhealthy habit of not eating regularly, so there's currently no food. If you'd like to do the shopping, be my-" The expression John's face contorted into interested Sherlock and he smirked. "You''ve embarrassed yourself, haven't you."

"...We're not going to discuss that..." Though John was quite amazed that Sherlock knew. "We can work out a plan-"

"Of course," the taller male interrupted. "I'm much more flexible than the task force gives me credit for, much less Scotland Yard."

John blinked. Of course, Sherlock thought bitterly. He was getting ahead of himself. He busied his hand with clearing the lab equipment and chemicals from the living room before they got knocked over. That would make Sherlock upset.

"What kind of experiments do you do...?" John sounded reluctant.

"Depends on my level of frustration," he said simply. "Have you met Mrs. Hudson?"

The ex-soldier perked up at the name. "I have. Nice woman."

"Too nice if you ask for my opinion," he muttered to himself.

John rolled his eyes. He wandered around the living room. He stopped in front of the fireplace where his eyes landed on a skull.

"Is that real?" John asked.

"Of course it is. I boiled the flesh off and everything. Don't touch. He doesn't like to be touched."

John clicked his tongue. Sherlock had been on his own far too long. The ex-soldier sat on the cluttered couch. He'd more than likely will clean up the flat when he moves in. Which shouldn't be long, Sherlock decided as he smiled to himself.

John gotten his belongings into the flat. There wasn't much to be brought. Just two suitcases full of clothes, toillietries, and one has a small medical kit. Sherlock walked into John's bedroom without knocking. John learned very quickly that the slim man was capable of walking as silently ass a ghost.

"John, show me your hands," he said thoughtfully.

John nearly jumped out of his skin. "Christ!" he exclaimed, dropping the shirt he was folding again.

Sherlock waited until John was calmed before he requested again, "Show me your hands."

John raised his hands along with an eyebrow. He didn't question Sherlock in his request, but he had hesitated. Palms up, John studied Sherlock while Sherlock studied John's hands. His hands were calloused but soft. Neither hand shook a single bit. He turned his hand over. There were burns on the top. Most likely from firing a gun. He had several faded scars that could hardly be seen.

"Why are you looking at my hands?" John asked. "They were busy putting clothes away."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "You can tell a lot about a person and what they do or did." He brushed his fingers over the callouses. "You're very much used to using your hands. Training has made parts of your hands calloused, in which I assume a lot of upper body strength was needed." His fingers ghosted across the middle of his hand. "But they're soft and steady, well trained to be a doctor." He smirked lightly. "And, embarrassing for you, your last masturbat-"

John jerked his hands away. "Alright, alright! You're good." His cheeks turned a light red and he turned back around in order to finish folding and putting up his clothes."

"Observe."

"I do, though not as much as you do. I'm not completely dense."

Sherlock frowned. Indeed John was smarter than he looked. Sherlock needed to be careful; he needed John to stay just inside the dark. Too far in the dark and his challange would be no fun.


	3. Chapter 3

Grocery Store. Boring. Dull. Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket. He frowned and pulled it out as he followed John down the canned goods isle.

_I see you've found a new play toy. -MH_

_What's it to you? -SH_

Sherlock gripped his phone tighter. He hated his older brother with a bloody passion. It was his fault that the younger brother was a killer. His phone vibrated again.

_I'm just ensuring my little brother is entertained. We wouldn't want you to have a tantrum because you're bored. -MH_

Sherlock's thumbs typed angrily. _Bugger off and let me have my fun then. -SH_

John looked up at Sherlock as he put two cans of green beans in the basket on his arm. "I can just feel the irritation radiating from you. Something wrong?"

Sherlock looked down at his flatmate with an unconcerned expression. "Nothing. Are we almost done here?"

John sighed softly. He lead Sherlock to the next isle. He picked up a box of mashed potatoes. "Now we are." He gave the basket to Sherlock. "You check out."

Sherlock took the basket and strutted to one of the self check outs. John followed behind him. Johnlock used this chance to study how the taller man worked. His eyes darted left and right as he waited for the person in front of him to move along. Even when he scanned each item, his was looking everywhere. He double bagged cans and the milk and passed them all on to John, who had no trouble holding it all. He swiped his card, put on his PIN, grabbed the receipt. He turned to John.

"Now, that wasn't so hard was it?" He teased.

John blushed lightly. "Shut your face..."

Sherlock smiled a rare genuine smile. It felt different. He licked his lips when John looked away. John handed Sherlock a few bags.

The taxi ride back to Baker Street was occupied by Sherlock asking John strange questions. John wasn't sure what to make of them, so he looked out the window as he answered.

"I do hope you don't have a foot fetish..." Sherlock thought aloud. Judging by John's groan, that was a definite no.

John was left to put up the groceries while the taller man went to the kitchen table where his lab eqquipment sat. John rolled up his sleeves. Sherlock studied the exposed flesh. Just like his face and neck, they were a dark, rich tan. They were well muscled for his size and age, Sherlock noted. John ran the tap and washed his hands.

"Dinner?" John asked, taking out two pots.

"It's lunch, though," Sherlock pointed out.

John grunted an agreement. "Dinner?" he pressed against.

"...Starving," he said after a few seconds.

John had extraordinary patients next to Sherlock. Like a child, he was scolded about his equipment being on the table. Sherlock smirked lightly. But eventually, a hard smack on the top of his head got him in motion. He put all his chemicals and Such away along with his beakers and test tubes. He looked up at John and blinked.

"How'd you do that?" he asked, shocked.

"Do what?" came John's casual tone. He never turned to face Sherlock, continuing to stir the potatoes.

Sherlock sat down, shaking his head. "Ah, nothing. Just thinking of the list of people that's tried to get me to put those things away.."

"How any have succeeded?"

"None."

John hummed as he continued to cook while Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table. When he was done, he sat two plates out. He put food on the first plate along with a fork and sat it in front of Sherlock. He did the same with second for himself, sitting across from the man. The two ate in silence, Sherlock spending more time studying over John than eating the simple meal in front of him. John glanced up at Sherlock.

"I made something. Eat it, please," he said, finishing off his last bite. He put his plate in the sink and washed his dishes and put them up.

Sherlock ate at John's order. He didn't too much like the taste of boxed food. His nose wrinkled a bit. He couldn't really complain. John _did_ try to get quality foods to make dinner, but he'd hurried the ex-soldier and practically forced him to choose something quick and simple. Sherlock finished his dinner and put his plate in the sink and disappeared into his room. John washed the plats and fork and put them up, sighing softly. He pushed a few boxes from in front of the telly and turned it on. He found some soap oprah. One Life To Live was having a Marathon starting from Season one. It was something to watch and pass by some time.

Sherlock locked his bedroom door. He took out his throwing knives and played with those as he pondered his new flatmate. He threw one of his knives at the target he hung up on the other side of the room. He had to be carefully with John. He would know how to counterattack if Sherlock made a wrong move. He threw another. He could probably kill him from a distance; Sherlock's aim was pretty damn Good. He threw another. That would be too much blood. He hated messes. He hated things easily traceable. Poison? Accidental fire? Knife? Gun? Bare hands? So many decisions! Sherlock threw his last throwing knife, before going to the target to examine his work. He pulled them out and put them back in their respectable place.

He sat down on the bed, crossed his legs, listened to what was going on outside. The telly was on, and John was snoring loudly. He had been watching crap telly. Sherlock could understand why he'd fallen alseep. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the bed. He imagined what John's heartbeat was like right now, how slow it would be beating in sleep, how it would pick up when the time came for Sherlock to make it stop bleeding. Sherlock figured his own heart would beat fast, fast like a train. Ah! Killing was terribly thrilling!

Waves of black began to crash over the killer, dragging him into the sea of sleep. His sleep was deep and dreamless, but there was a voice inside of his head, an annoying little thing, that was telling him to leave John be, as if that voice knew what was good for Sherlock. Maybe it did; maybe he should leave him be, maybe he shouldn't. Even during sleep, his mind raced, processed, thought about what he should do with John. He was conflicted. His only option now was to take his time to observe, plan later. His brain accepted this and reluctantly shut down, and he slipped further into a deep sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock woke to the sound of John's boots on the stairs, heavy. He groaned and rolled over, throwing his legs over the side of his bed. He groped underneath his pillow for his phone. He checked it. His older brother had texted him during the night. The first message was an address. The second text gave him a general idea of what was expected of him.

_Make it quick, Sherlock. Make it clean. –MH_

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and slipped on his shoes. He put his phone on charge. He could smell breakfast cooking and his stomach growled in protest of the idea of skipping breakfast. Not with him smelling eggs and biscuits. He buttoned up the buttons on his shirt that had come undone during his sleep as he stepped into the kitchen. His quiet descent stopped when he saw John standing in front of the stove in nothing more than his jeans. A glance around the kitchen, and he saw the man's shirt and jumper hung neatly over a chair. He'd been in the middle of getting dressed and cooking. A towel was slung over his should, but it just barely covered a nasty scar—a bullet wound. Sherlock's curiosity got the better of him as he approached him. He brushed his fingers across the rough patch of skin, causing John to gasp and jump, whirling around.

"What the fuck?" he exclaimed, eyes darting over Sherlock, looking over him for an explanation as to why his battle scar was just touched.

Sherlock looked calmly down at John. "Apologies. I didn't mean to startle you."

John turned around to finish the eggs. He sighed softly. "Don't touch it. Don't look at it. Don't draw any attention to it," he said simply, dumping the eggs onto a plate. "Breakfast is done. Fix a plate, sit down, and eat."

Sherlock did exactly that. He poured himself a cup of tea as John fixed himself a plate. He put the plate and cup on the table. Much to Sherlock's dismay, he put his shirt on and buttoned it up to the second button. He ate quietly. Sherlock had clearly upset him by touching the wound. Perhaps, he shouldn't ask about it. John seemed very touchy about it. Sherlock finished his breakfast fairly quick, inhaling it instead of properly chewing and swallowing. He cleared his throat and stood. "I'm going out. Don't wait around for me. I'll be coming back late. I've errands to run for my brother," he stated calmly.

"Wasn't planning on it. I've a date today. Take your time," John responded, looking at Sherlock over the edge of his cup.

Sherlock nodded and put his plate and cup in the sink, rushing off back to his room to grab his phone, coat and throwing knives. As he walked out of the door, he couldn't help but feel a little bit upset that Mycroft had given him another victim so early in the morning. Just for that he was going to drag it out and make a mess. He tucked the pouch into his inside coat pocket. He pushed his hands into his pants pocket and began the long walk to the given address.

John watched Sherlock leave out of the window. He figured now was a good of a time as ever to get some cleaning done. Some of the boxes were still unpacked and he took the liberty of knowing no one was watching him (as he had turned on the radio and decided to listen to some music as he unpacked. No one should ever see him dance as silly as he was while he worked.) He'd unpacked all of his things and put them away in his room, and he had unpacked nearly all the little shelf items and kitchenware when he glanced at his watch. His date was in an hour. He picked up his coat and his wallet and left the flat. He passed by Ms. Hudson, who smiled and greeted the doctor.

"Oh, John! How are you this morning?" she asked.

John smiled and hugged her loosely. "I'm great, Ms. Hudson. I've actually got a date in an hour."

"Oh, well have fun, boy. Don't be out too late, ya hear? You and Sherlock both! I don't want to hear stomping up the stairs at an ungodly hour."

John nodded. "I don't know where Sherlock ran off too, actually. He just up and left this morning after breakfast. Said not to wait for him."

Ms. Hudson gave a puzzled look. "So you and Sherlock aren't on a date?"

John was taken aback, eyebrows raised up to his hairline in disbelief at such an assumption. "Please don't consider me rude, but I'm not gay, Ms. Hudson," he stated flatly. "Besides, I've only known Sherlock for a couple of days. I don't know anything about him, really, other than the fact that he's a major smart-ass."

"And you decided to room with a stranger?" she scolded. "For all you know, your new flatmate could be a killer!"

John looked away and rolled his eyes upward. "Either way, the rent is split and there's a roof over my head instead of tent that might blow away during a strong breeze. For that, I'm greatful." He smiled. "It was nice chatting with you, Ms. Hudson, but I must be off."

Ms. Hudson said good-bye and John headed out of the door. He hailed a cab. When he finally managed to flag one day, the ride was spent thinking about Sherlock (in the most heterosexual way, mind you!) He didn't know Sherlock, and he most certainly didn't know what he was getting into sharing at flat with the stranger.

Sherlock hated cleaning up blood, but the thick, metallic smell made him get over that fact. His last throwing knife in hand, the woman in the chair seated in front of him had long since died by his hand. It was just a simple waiting game. He made her death quick, but of course, killing wouldn't be so thrilling without the screaming, and no one could scream with a knife in their throat, now could they? He went over to the body, taking the knife out of her stomach. He simply wiped the blood off of the blade and handle, returning it to the pouch he'd brought it in. He jerked out the second blade, stepping to the side as one spurt of blood exited the body. He wiped that blade off and returned it to the pouch. He then took out a handful of lighters. He lit up a couple of bottles of cleaning supplies throughout the house. He quickly, but calmly entered the night as the house caught on fire, burning an evidence in the house that could be traced back to him. The grass surrounding the house was dry enough (strange, for English weather) that even it caught on fire. Sherlock took an escape route he'd previously picked out prior to the murder. His getaway was quick and easy.

He took the tube back into London, and from there, a cab back to Baker Street. The ride was full of him thinking of John and his date. Would he bring his date home and have a nice shag, or would he be invited over to her house for a nice shag? Just little things he shouldn't be worried about. Of course, he'd know when he walked through the door, maybe. When he walked through the doors, it was quiet. He made his ways up the stairs. He'd drawn out the kill longer than had been necessary. He had played a game with her. He asked her trivia questions. For ever right answer, that was one hour to her life. He waited ten hours before he killed her. It seemed fair. It was a kill he didn't particularly care for that morning, so of course he had to find a way to stall. He couldn't have just avoided it. Mycroft would know, and the last thing he needed was his older brother poking his nose in why he didn't kill the woman when he was told.

Mycroft didn't understand Sherlock like he claimed he did. He should know his little brother like a good big brother should. Sherlock didn't want to kill _all the time_. Just when he's feeling particularly edgy with a knife. Sherlock had expressed his deep love for the way people looked after being murdered. It gave him chill. But big brother interpreted it all wrong. He never said in any shape, form, or fashion that he wanted to kill. He gave Sherlock his knives, sent him to an address. Ever since, he was partially addicted, in a way. He couldn't tell him 'No.' He would have some of his little perks taken away, and he couldn't deal with that.

Sherlock sighed as he reached the last step. John was sitting on the couch, head leaning back and his arms crossed his chest; he was asleep. He quietly closed the door and tried to slip off silently to his room, but John spoke, not bothering to open his eyes.

"Hello, Sherlock," he said simply. "It's hard to sneak past a soldier's ear. Plus your presence is overwhelming; I felt you when you walked in."

Sherlock blinked. "But you were a doctor."

John opened his eyes, slowly looking at Sherlock. "I still went through boot camp. Hearing can be the difference between life of death."

Sherlock found it ironic of John to mention life or death. He chuckled inwardly and continued off to his room to thoroughly clean and put up his throwing knives.


End file.
